The Tale of the Finger’s Consent (and Content)


Fingers are quite awkward

And possibly the most fascinating thing in the world.

Fingers withhold experiences,

Fingers scream identities.

Fat fingers, stubby fingers
Long slender fingers.

Some fingers are like a brash gust of wind on a snowy day. They splash across your face the harsh realities. They brush across your cheek fervent brutalities. They tie your fleeting mentalities


To the ground.

Fingers are quite violent.

Some form iron fists,
Some, frail surrenders

and others, malicious offenders.

They circle around the surrenders,
They beat down their piety. Some fingers

Will trace every curve of your body,

deeming your worth looted.

They assault in a way so shoddy

That the shrine of your temple:

ruins embodied.

Fingers are also comfort.

Fingers are home.

Clasping hands,
As the sun takes its last drag at the day.

Interlocked finger after finger;

the gentle whisper of a lover.

Impetus of the overwhelming adrenaline rush that takes over, feelings churning in your stomach, it spreads out from one side to the last.
It spreads inside

As the dusk approaches

And the sun rises inside 

Mellow, hushed fingers follow
From crevice to crevice.

Lustful eyes, an eager bystander.

Fingers resting in the foyer.

Your shrine, forever divine.


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